


The Pleasure Man

by GloriaMundi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 10yearanniversary, Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: au_bingo, Gen, au: turn of the century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Might I remind you, Mr Holmes, that of the two of us it is <i>you</i> who has been detained at Her Majesty's pleasure, having pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pleasure Man

**16th March 1882**

I intend to keep a personal record of my employment at Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, which commenced today. After the horrors of war, the peaceful ambiance (only occasionally disrupted by the howls of the more troubled patients) is as good a medicine as any I could prescribe for myself. The beautiful vistas over the Downs, the clear air and the birdsong, are pleasant in a way that the bustle and noise of London could never be. 

I am hopeful that my work here -- the moral treatment of those poor souls driven by mental disturbance to criminal acts -- will benefit both my patients and myself. I 

Here is Doctor William Orange, the Superintendent and a friend of my old classmate Stamford, to welcome me to the Asylum and its inhabitants.

* 

**18th March 1882**

Today Orange introduced me to a man whom he described as 'the most perplexing of all our patients'. "Mr Holmes' conduct is, in the main, exemplary," said Orange, leading me along the main hallway of block B to room 221. (The majority of the patients, save those of the most extreme temperaments, are quartered in individual chambers, rather more spacious than the average prison cell and considerably better-appointed.) "However, his mind is far from what you or I might deem normal. He is morally insane. Very clever fellow, though: fiendishly clever. You must be careful not to let him draw you into his little games. 

Mr Holmes is a tall, slender man who appears more youthful than his records indicate. His gaze is piercing, and somewhat unsettling. He _sees_ \-- 

But I must record my observations, not my speculations. 

"Doctor Watson," said Orange, "this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, this is --" 

"Afghanistan," interrupted Holmes rudely, "or Abyssinia?" 

"I beg your pardon?" said I. 

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Abyssinia?" 

"I -- that is, I served in Afghanistan, until I --" 

"Yes, yes," said Holmes dismissively, gesturing at the cane I use. (Dr Orange has advised me that it might, in an emergency, serve as deterrent to some of the most violently deranged inmates.) "Has the first post arrived yet?" 

I was startled by this non-sequitur, but soon perceived that he was addressing Orange. 

"The letters are being sorted, Mr Holmes," said Orange: then, to me, "Mr Holmes enjoys a lively correspondence with numerous friends, both in England and overseas." 

"I don't _enjoy_ it," snapped Holmes. "I _tolerate_ it, because my work demands a constant flow of current information. The people who write to me aren't my friends." He almost spat the word. "I do not have friends. I have informants. Colleagues, if you will. Now: my post?" 

"I'll ... see if there's been some delay," said Orange, excusing himself. From the look he gave me, I surmised that this was a deliberate ploy on his part, intended to grant me the opportunity of quizzing Holmes myself. 

"And what is this work on which you are so busily engaged?" I enquired. 

"Crime, Dr Watson. I act as a consultant to Scotland Yard -- a consulting detective, if you will." 

"I see," I said, humouring him. (In truth, I have long suspected that Scotland Yard consult lunatics.) 

"You do _not_ see," snapped Holmes. "You're an idiot, just like everyone else. Oh, don't look so hurt: I don't mean it as an insult." 

"Might I remind you, Mr Holmes, that of the two of us it is _you_ who has been detained at Her Majesty's pleasure, having pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity?" 

"Hah!" His laugh was almost a bark. "If you're to be my doctor, you had better appreciate that I am perfectly rational." 

"Of course," I said stiffly. "Hence your presence here at Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum." 

"I am here because I see too much," said Holmes obscurely. 

"According to your records, you're here because you were discovered in the act of thrashing the corpse of --" 

"Oh, come on, _think_. Why does nobody think? It must be so relaxing, not using your brain." He was pacing the tiny room like a caged animal, gesticulating: I was glad of the spurious protection of my cane. "Records, Watson? Only an idiot would rely on records. Who decides what's recorded? Idiots, that's who." 

"Are you implying that you're innocent of --" 

"No, no. Stop trying to think: it's clearly an unproductive exertion for you. The records show what happened, but they do not show _why_." 

I waited, unwilling to encourage his delusions further by asking the obvious question. 

"I _see_ , Watson. I _perceive_. Perhaps I should provide an example, something for the hard of thinking. You, for instance: you were an army doctor, but you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You're clearly a doctor -- your presence here, in the company of Orange, confirms it -- but you stand like a soldier. You're tanned, but not above the wrist; you have been in the tropics, but not as an idle sun-seeker. Your leg was injured in the line of duty, or you'd still be on campaign. You've come to Broadmoor on the recommendation of a friend -- perhaps someone from your days at medical school, am I right?" 

"Stamford," I said numbly. "But how --" 

At that moment, however, Dr Orange returned, a fat bundle of letters in his hand. "I trust you have not been perplexing Dr Watson, Holmes." 

"Of course not," said Holmes sweetly. "I shall look forward to being under his care."

*

 **21st March 1882**

I have been reading through the records pertaining to Sherlock Holmes' admission. Regardless of his claims, his _actions_ have not been those of a sane individual. Cavorting in a state of undress in a public space; desecration of a corpse; purchasing a controlled substance under false pretenses. 

He is a 'pleasure man', as the parlance of Broadmoor has it; a madman to be detained at Her Majesty's pleasure, without a fixed term of incarceration. 

He is by far the most fascinating of the patients I have encountered here.

I find that I am looking forward to our next conversation.

*

 **25th March 1882**

"I presume," I said to Holmes today, "that you are hoping to persuade me to declare you sane, so that you may leave this place and return to your previous pursuits." 

"Would you?" enquired Holmes idly. He had been playing the violin when I knocked at his door: he is, like several of the other patients, an accomplished musician, though will not participate in any communal music-making. 

"Certainly not," I said. "Your behaviour in the past weeks -- the behaviour I have _observed_ \-- has been unexceptionable, but you persist in these delusions of grandeur: do you really expect me to believe that Scotland Yard employ a madman to aid them in their investigations?" 

"Set a thief to catch a thief, Watson," said Holmes, with one of his swift flashing smiles. "By the way, you're wrong again." 

"In which respect?" 

"In every respect. Firstly, read this." 

He thrust a letter in front of me, and instinctively I accepted it. The sender's name was Inspector G. Lestrade at Scotland Yard (I must remember to make enquiries as to the existence of such a person) and he was writing to thank Mr S. Holmes for his valuable assistance in securing the apprehension of-- 

I did not read further. 

"You might easily have written this yourself," I remarked, tossing the letter back onto Holmes' untidy work-table. 

Holmes rolled his eyes. 

"Postmark, Watson?" 

"Very well," I said stiffly. "I concede the point, for now. And I confess to a certain curiosity: perhaps, if --" 

"When," interjected Holmes, staring out of the window. 

"When what? You can't possibly --"

"You were going to say, 'If Lestrade seeks your assistance again'. _When_ , Watson. _When_."

"Oh, very well," I snapped. " _When_ Lestrade seeks your help again, I might be permitted to know the details of the case?" 

Holmes' expression was one of triumph. He punched the air like a schoolboy watching a boxing-match. Yet his tone was as world-weary as ever when he said, "As a medical man, I expect you might be of some use to me." 

I did not know how to answer that. Instead, I said, "Secondly?" I had hoped to wrong-foot him, but I am beginning to suspect that is an impossibility. 

"Secondly," said Holmes, "I have no intention whatsoever of leaving Broadmoor at the moment." 

"But surely your former pursuits--" 

"Why would I leave, Watson?" Holmes gestured at the magnificent view beyond his window; the prisoners -- patients -- playing cricket on the lawn, the blue uniforms of lower-class patients working in the Asylum's fields, the green hills beyond. "Here is a microcosm of society: here I may encounter the most fascinating men of our time. A veritable library of the human condition! By applying my methods -- my _brain_ \-- to the analysis of my fellow inmates, I gain data which enables me to comprehend the workings of the criminal mind." 

"Do you mean to say that all criminals are lunatics? Or perhaps that all lunatics are criminals?" 

"Do try to keep up. What I am saying is that many of the patients here are no less sane than you or I." I chuckled. Holmes glared at me. "But because they cannot or will not conform," he went on, "because they are not _sheep_ , they are diagnosed with moral insanity, or lesions of the will, or some such nonsense." 

"And perhaps," I ventured, "they might be guided towards sanity?" 

Holmes fixed me with a pitying look. "How boring, Watson. Please don't be boring." 

"You would prefer them to remain --" 

"I would prefer them to retain their infinite variety, their creativity, their fascination. Don't you see?" 

And, God help me, I did. I saw that the lunatics in the field were more interesting than any patients I might encounter off the battlefield. And the lunatic in front of me, with his eyes alight and his words tumbling over themselves, addicted to the curious and the strange -- 

Perhaps we are not so different after all. 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kate for beta!
> 
> My research, let me show you it:  
> [ _Broadmoor Revealed: Victorian Crime and the Lunatic Asylum_ \-- Mark Stevens](http://www.amazon.co.uk/Broadmoor-Revealed-Victorian-Lunatic-ebook/dp/B005DXFGJE) (free e-book, utterly fascinating and very readable)  
> [Various pages in the 'Crime' section of The Victorian Web](http://www.victorianweb.org/history/crime/index.html)


End file.
